This is me, the writer, telling stories about family, travel, quirky moments in life and refecting on the world and its absurdities.

Monday, 29 June 2015

Three Amici Part III

View from Agrigento apartment

I did say I fancied her. That may have contributed to her panic.Of course when I say fancied I mean I complimented her on her beauty and confessed that the younger man in me found her very attractive. Well, the older man too to be honest.

When I look at photos from the trip; of me and of her I can understand her panic.Richard Gere I am not. I can't seem to find that "best" camera angle to capture my inner beauty. Perhaps the lens is telling the truth? I did sulk for about five minutes then headed out to buy a navigation device as a replacement for her. For about 100 euro I got a "Tom Tom" to replace Nicky and her iPhone. How fickle one can be.

Over the next five days I had a ball. First the fishing village of Sciacca with the beautiful piazza set high above the fishing fleet and the Mediterranean. It's a magic word Mediterranean. I never tire of the idea that I am sitting beside a body of water with such history and such a sense of romance.

In Marsala I found my second home where I could lick my wounds and steady myself. I decided to make it my base for a few days. I had a simple but lovely apartment in an old palace refurbished by the owners. Two big rooms and the most bizarre bathroom and shower I've ever experienced. The hot and cold tap for the shower was in a different room. You get the picture.

The days were great: sunny, friendly, surprising, delightful, great food and art. I fell in love with ugly Marsala and she loved me back. From here I visited Erice, a thirty minute drive away and shrouded in moody clouds..The evening meals were painful.There's nothing quite so forlorn than sitting at a table set for four by yourself in a restaurant full of people celebrating friendship and family in a language you can't understand. It seemed there was always one table vacant and it was always in the very centre of the trattoria. I felt like a fish in a bowl observing the life of others, opening and closing my mouth not in conversation but only to accommodate my fork making its return journey from my plate.

Nicky and I exchanged emails. I apologised for my role in her panic; she (patronizingly) said she was happy I was having such a good time "Hadn't she told me that I would." She confessed that she had fled to Piazza Almerina and the donkeys in the mountains rather than face her friends in Ortigia and their inevitable comments: "I told you so." " It was a stupid idea." She never told them the truth. I did find some satisfaction when she told me she'd had to sleep on a camp-bed in the disability toilet for two nights.

She writes songs. I could hear some Nora Jones in her voice. She didn't know the Ravi Shankar connection (I'm presuming you do). Like I said she writes songs so I sent her some lyrics.

Gypsy

I met this man under
the moon in Ortigia

He said let's split we
can travel in my car and

If asked why we did it
we'll call it our seizure.

His brain was in tune,
No sign of dementia

My guitar is my best
friend I told him day one and

It seemed to make
sense, so began our adventure.

I am a gypsy

I was from the start

I need my own spaces

A song in my heart.

The days went so
smoothly, the sights they were stunning

Modica and Noto,
Scicli, Armerina.

Moltalbano was nearby,
he saw me tan sunning.

My feet they were
hurting, my itches were stinging

We talked about
Tolstoy, my love of Keith Richard

Age makes no
difference it's all in the singing.

I am a gypsy

I was from the start

I need my own spaces

A song in my heart.

And then came the day
that had too many churches

Escape urged within me
I could not resist it

I needed to breathe
and to fly with the breezes

Was it something I
said he asked me in horror

It's just my free
spirit I said in reply

It was great on the
road but I run without sorrow.

I am a gypsy

I was from the start

I need my own spaces

A song in my heart.

She didn't like it much. She writes lyrics much better than I do. She has poetry in her.
And what of Lampadusa my other travelling companion? He succeeded in providing the thin gossamer thread that continued to connect we three - the tourist, the escapee and the noble Sicilian.

About Me

It's about stories. I'm exploring my Italian heritage and reflecting on life. And lots of photography.
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